Tag Archives: innocence

After I got my first period — less than a month before my twelfth birthday — is right around when the two women began including me in their gabbing sessions, in the kitchen.

At first, I joined reluctantly: I would much rather “waste my life away”, as mother dramatically accused me of, with a novel. But face it! When the two of them returned from their separate errands, both beautiful and smelling of the same perfume — the flirtation of all the men still echoing in their voices — I would be a major “dura” to resist the temptation of their company.

And the stories, the day’s gossip — the life force pumping through the street of our town — seemed more titillating than my mother’s romance novels (through which I, when home alone, would rummage and then re-hide them in the cupboards of her bedside stand). Now: Our neighborhood wasn’t really happening. Someone would die, occasionally, after drinking too much. Someone else got married, before an accidental pregnancy showed. Both the town’s funerals and its weddings could be attended by anyone. For Russians, it’s bad fucking karma to turn guests away! So, as processions crawled through the main roads (not many Russians owned cars, not in those days!), neighbors joined in; because at the end of either line, they’d find free food. And what’s more important: Vodka!

Breathlessly, I listened to the women’s stories, never putting my two kopeks in. Assigned the most menial jobs in the kitchen, like peeling of potatoes or sorting out grains of rice, I kept my head down and worked my ears overtime. At times, the exchange of information was packed with details so intense and so confusing, it hurt my brain to follow. Still, I tried to comprehend in silence because asking either my sis or mother to repeat — was borderline suicidal.

“Now, mamotchka!” (Marinka was already notorious for kissing up. She’d learned how to work our mother’s ego.) “Have you heard about Uncle Pavel?”

“Nyet! What?”

The way my sis was blushing now, in the opal light of fall’s sunset, solidified that she was rapidly turning into her mother’s daughter: A stunner, simply put. The prospects of the townswomen’s matchmaking had already begun coming up at the dinner table; and every time, Marinka turned red and stole sheepish glances at our father. There was no way around it: She was easily becoming the prettiest girl in town! Not in that wholesome and blonde Slavic beauty way, but an exotic creature, with doe eyes, long hair of black waves and skin the color of buckwheat honey.

Marinka carried on. “I got this from Ilyinitchna,” she gulped. She’d gone to far, corrected herself: “Anna Ilyinitchna, I mean.” (The tone of informality common for most Russian women was still a bit to early for Marinka to take on. But she was getting there: Whenever she joined our mother’s girlfriends for tea, she was permitted to address them with an informal “you”.)

Mother was already enticed. “What?! What’d you hear?” she wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and turned her entire body toward my sister.

“He and Tatiana’s daughter…” There, Marinka took notice of me. She looked back at our mother for a go-ahead. The silence was thick enough to be cut with a knife. I pretended to not have heard anything.

But mom had no patience for not knowing: “Oy, Marina! Don’t stretch it out, I beg of you! What did you hear?!”

Sis ran her nails to tame the fly-aways by pushing them behind her ears. Her hair was thick and gathered into a messy construction on the back of her head. Ringlets of it escaped and clung to her sweaty neck.

“Well?! WHAT!”

Whenever mother spoke, I noticed the tension Marinka’s shoulders — a habit of a child who took on a regular beatings from a parent. In boys, one saw defiant thoughts of brewing rebellion. But it looked different in girls. We had to bear. It could take decades to grow out of oppression. Some women never made it out. They would be transferred from the rule of their parents’ household to that of their husbands’. Forgiveness already started seeming too far-fetched.

Marinka blushed again. Lord, give us the courage! “He and Tatiana’s daughter were seen having dinner together in the city. He took her to a rest-aur-ant!” She slowed down, for effect: Dining at Soviet restaurants was NOT a casual happening. “And she was dressed like the last whore of Kaliningrad. She now wears a perm, although I’m sure it’s not her parents’ money that pay for it.” Sis was on a roll. “I mean you see how Tatyana dresses! The thing she wore for her husband’s funeral! A woman of her age should watch such things!”

It felt like something lodged inside my throat. Was it words? Or a hair-thin bone from a sardine sandwich from my breakfast? Although I didn’t understand the situation completely, I knew it wasn’t something that left my brain untarnished.

Mother, by now, was smiling ear to ear. “Hold up! Which daughter?! Oh, Lord! Is it Oksanka?!”

Marinka shot another stare in my direction. You’ll break your eyes, I thought. Oh man, I wanted to get out of there! Blinking rapidly to remove the layer of forming tears — the shame! alas, the shame of it all! — I fished out the next wrinkled potato from the iron basin at my feet and hurriedly scraped it with the dull knife.

“Well, Oksanka, mamotchka! Of course! She’s got that job at the City Hall, remember?”

“Well,” mom shook her head. “WELL. That little bitch! She knows how to get around, I’ll give her that!”

I looked at Marinka, she — at me. Mother bluntness was a common happening but even we were surprised at her bluntness.

“The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” mother concluded. Marinka chuckled, fear freezing her eyelids into an expression of panic. The clock of her girlhood had stopped its final countdown.

Mother gave out her orders for dad to go pick up some of her special bread for dinner. The wide white baguette was the only thing she claimed to be able to eat:

“My stomach is allergic to that other peasant crap!” She, of course, was referring to the bricks of wheat bread that dad and I could devour kilos at a time, given enough garlic and salt. “And why don’t you take the small one with you? Keep her from getting under my feet?”

Dad found me reading inside Marinka’s closet, where I had built myself a beanbag-like chair out of a pile of dirty laundry. This was the only place in our two bedroom apartment where the constant stream of kitchen noises sounded reasonably muffled.

“Hey, monkey!” dad cracked open one of the doors. “Wanna join Papka on a smoking break?”

Before I removed my ear plugs I’d made from cotton balls, I studied the handsome man’s face. He — was my father. Floating above me, nearly at the ceiling, as it seemed, he reminded me of those romantic leads in the old, black-and-white Soviet films: usually some Labor Hero or the best and the brightest of the Party for whom love always arrived after success, and always in a form of the least likely — somewhat homely and nerdy — girl. Dad’s eyes were radiating with tanned wrinkles. His lips were resisting the type of a grin that happened whenever he tried his damn hardest not to act amused at my expense.

“A smoking break? Well. Yeah, sure.” I shrugged one of my shoulders, slipped the index fingers in between the pages of The Master and Margarita, and placed the book face down. (All the reading for our Literature Class I had completed back during my summer at the Pioneer Camp. Since then, I’d been reading everything I could find in my parents’ library, in alphabetical order. Considering I was still making my way through “B’s”, I hadn’t gotten too far. But it took no more than a few chapters to know that this novel could get me into serious trouble.)

Dad stepped back to give me enough room to slip out of my office, and after I wrangled myself out of Marinka’s dirty bathrobe, he examined me head to toe and said: “The consensus is: You might need a jacket.”

“Yeah? Should I wear rain boots, too?”

With one of his forearms, dad moved the tulle curtains and looked out of the window. “Ooh. Yeah,” he nodded. “You’re right. Looks like it might rain.”

I knew that. Lying down on the floor, on my stomach, I was already fishing for the matching rain boot under our bunk bed. In secret, I was hoping that my shoe, of boringly dull rubber, had been lost forever and that I would get to wear Marinka’s pair: They were all shiny, with bright flowers; almost brand new and made in the very exotic country of China. But the dark thing in the furthest corner turned out to be my missing rain boot. That’s alright, I thought. I will inherit the Chinese pair in no time!

“Are we gonna bring an umbrella, too?”

“Nah,” dad looked out of the window again. “We aren’t the type to melt, are we?!”

Shaking the last of the dust bunnies from my abandoned rain boot, I felt a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. Dad chose me! He could’ve gone alone — but he chose my company! The days of his endless travels were long gone. The furthest he would depart these days would be to work on blown over phone lines that connected his Army Unit to what I assumed to be the Kremlin. Still, every evening, the man looked for an excuse to stay out of the house. Smoking was one of them.

As I began to mold into a serious runner at school and refused to wear dresses (besides my mandatory school uniform), dad and I began venturing out on walks. Perhaps it was because my funny predisposition tickled my old man. Being outnumbered had to be an already rough reality long before all three women of our household began menstruating on the same schedule. So, I imagine it was a bit of a relief to discover that at least his youngest offspring could wish for no better occupation than to climb trees, outrun boys; bang nails into drywalls, go fishing or take endless walks through the town. And to make our likeness even more daunting, I wasn’t one to talk much either.

Naturally, I didn’t go questioning as to where the two of us were now heading. Not until we passed the gates of the town’s police station, already shut for the day — its only lightbulb above the main doorway reflecting in the wet asphalt like the second moon — that I asked:

“How come we’re in a hurry?”

Dad’s gait, always evenly paced as if he were marching in the Red Square parade, felt rushed. Normally, he was more aware of the patter of my feet, echoing his own footsteps. But that day, he was moving faster than I expected from our typical “smoking break”. In parts, I’d had to jog a little to keep up.

The man took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew the smoke over this left shoulder, away from me, and said: “Sorry, comrade! We’re picking up your mother’s bread.”

“Well. That’s understood,” I said, then zipped up my windbreaker and got ready to continue jogging, as if on a mission this time. This business of mother’s needs was to be taken seriously. Even I had learned that, by then.

“Understood?” dad smiled. In my response, I had given myself the masculine gender.

“Under-stood,” I nodded, then jogged slightly ahead of him to get a better look at his face. The same grin of his trying hard not to embarrass me was brewing on his lips.

Will you just look at him?! A little cock around a chicken coop, roughing up his feathers, in a company of obese pigeons.

And what is THIS: A smile?! His life is “six business days” away from altering its course: from the heart-breaking mediocracy of it to the new pattern of brutality — of evil begets evil. It’s at the mercy of some randomly selected buggers like me, so tired and overworked that we are no longer able to experience a patriotic high from this pain-in-the-ass civic duty; or from the frilly concepts of justice and what’s right. We are: The Who’s Who, and what of it?!

We’ve all got our ideas, that’s for sure! Our principles! I stand by this, I swear by that; I vow, I believe. We pump up our chest. We force our eyes to glimmer with conviction. But what of it? And who is he who aims at human life?

Okay, get up! The judge walked in. Get up! Don’t waiver but don’t be cocky either. The white folks — they don’t like that. Stand up!

Oh, man.

This. Blows.

In my belief, there used to be much more to breathing. But slowly, it has whittled down to simple truth — not even fairness, but truth — while all the rest has fallen by the wayside. Still, it is more than I can say about some people!

Like this loudmouth fat girl I haven’t seen here, on the first day. Today, in clunky, loud rain boots with worn out heel caps, she marches up and down the marble floors, with People Magazine under her armpit. (She’s interested in People.) And meaning to be seen and heard while on her cell phone, she flaunts those words that show no sympathy, no modesty and no distress to any of the details of today — but having “to get outta here”. She “can’t afford this”! She “has no tolerance for shit like that”! And obviously, she cannot manage to allow for the rest of us to wait in silence. Now — is her time; her stage. And we, the people, listen:

“Yeah, like, that would be the biggest tragedy, right? I mean, this jury duty — SUCKS! It’s, like, the worst thing that has happened to me, EVER!” A hair flip of vaguely red and stringy hair — and she suddenly reminds of somebody who once aroused the same aftertaste of nausea in my trachea. But who?

And this little man is smiling now. You’re scared shitless, aren’t you, kid? What have you got besides hormonal bravado and a shitty cover-up of fear. For this is not a smile of someone hopeless; but neither is he smiling to be liked by us.

They must’ve cleaned him up the night before and given him this bulky dress shirt of some unmemorable color. As if not to offend. Not to arouse all the self-righteous and the ones who have been programed by a life of fear. Whenever he turns his head, the collar sways around his skinny, post-pubescent neck like untied sails around a mast. He’s small. He’s tiny. He is a fucking kid!

Manslaughter. Ain’t that a fucked-up thing?!

Mi abuelo (I miss the old fuck!): He wouldda given me a smackin’ for haunching over right now.

“I didn’t come to this good country to see my first grandson groveling in front of white people!”

Don’t grovel, man!

His skin is ashen and uneven. I wonder where he spent last night…

The truth is: I am clueless. My knowledge of the judicial system is laced with fear, and it is mostly defined by bad cop shows produced by Hollywood (but shot in New York City — for that “edgier”, “more urban” look). Was he allowed to sleep at home, while waiting for this trial? When was the last time he squeezed the hips of this one girl who keeps coming around and holding his skinny, shaven head in that flat space along her chest while her gigantic breasts fall to the sides, right after he is done? When was the last time he was kissed and kept his eyes open, focused on the girl’s birthmarks and her taste?

When did the young abandon their reckless curiosity and started chasing justice?

Not guilty! Innocent, Your Honor!

Aw, shit! I guess it’s not my time yet. FUCK.

My god, you poor kid! What little you have had, in life! And you’re about to lose that too!

No, wait! I can’t be wondering these things! This man-child KILLED somebody! Sure, “allegedly”, but killed. “Allegedly,” he’d killed somebodies, actually! Not one but two, and one — was a young woman.

There is an old man glueing words together on the first panel of us. He’s speaking slowly, voice quivering, possessing no knowledge on how to use a mic. The poor soul can barely speak English:

“I… eh… I’m… bery scared, um… guns.”

My lawyer’s taking notes. He better be dismissing this old chink!

How have we come to this? What does this say, about us, when we no longer find the roots of it, the causes; but only our objections and dismissals. I stand by this, I vow to that. And rather than examining the history of violence — what makes us snap, then heal but harden? — we carry on imposing more violence. We call it “retribution”. The “crime” — to “punishment”.

These somebodies were somebodies’ beloveds, I remember. “Allegedly.”

The fat girl is dissecting People, in the row ahead of mine. Shit. Of whom does she remind me?

“Beyond the reasonable doubt.” That’s funny asking this complaining bunch out here to be reasonable!

The mic is passed to the lanky academic in wrinkled clothes, who’s sitting in the front row of the panel. It’s happening at the request of the stenographer: A visibly unhappy woman who rolls her eyes in the direction of the judge, for every time she cannot hear a juror. A potential juror, sorry. The wrinkled man refuses to say one word and steps to the side. He walks in front of the long desk where the kid is now slumping forward, in his seat. The silence that takes up the auditorium is nosy, odd and angry. The man returns. Sits down. He shoots the kid a glance. He’s gloating. How hateful! How have we come to this?

The face that stands at the other end of a cocked gun gets down to basics. The winning arguments of life.

A kink in the armor: Is that his fault?

My turn.

Do I understand “the burden of having his guilt proved” to me — “beyond the reasonable doubt”?

Be kind, be kind. Must always be kind. Be kind onto others. Which is not the same as being kind onto yourself.

The silly self: It’s like a whimpering babe, looking at her with confused eyes. Why aren’t you coming for me? Don’t you know how much I need you? Poor thing, so dumb and innocent, it knows not its ignorance is bliss; but need, need, need. I need you, need you, need you — to be you.

But she forsakes it. It can make it on its own. That’s the Darwinian rule that she had obeyed for years; the rule that had been done onto her, when her mother fled her marriage and parenthood in the family’s fourteen-year old Honda to live in Portland, with a lover — a vegan milkshake store owner. For her, it wasn’t: Do onto others as you do onto yourself. (Some people can be so selfish, mother!) But she had had a life-long history of being better to others — better for them — than to her whimpering self.

There’s time enough, she thought; and maybe later she could retire to finally tend to her needs. By then, the self would be so tired (although she swore she had been tired ever since she was thirteen). But she would tire herself out enough to retire, with babies and her future husband’s nightly strewn socks all around their bedroom. Until then: She had to be kind.

A decade ago, she used to be angry. At all times, at nearly everything. “It’s my prerogative! I am what I am,” said the ego. Except that it was all wrong: She was kind. Always kind. She was the daughter of her father — a gentle man who, despite the damages done onto him, had never done it onto others; and being his next of kin came with the same unbalanced, unjust genetic mechanics of selflessness and never knowing how to ask for a favor.

But even though, in her youth, she would hold onto the anger, she felt it falling flat every single time, after the initial sensation in her body. Like an off-key tune, it was uncertain and wavering; blue and slightly disappointed. Like a story without an arc: Who needs it?

“This is how I’ve always fended for myself,” she would defend the anger to her departing lovers and move the hair out of her eyes with a furious head shiver. The lovers couldn’t understand why she insisted on living her life in so much difficulty. Not everything had to be understood so thoroughly, so completely. She “should learn to let go”.

Fine by me! Go! Go on and leave!

But they would miss her, she was sure of it; because in between all those hollow spaces of anger, she always offered kindness. Kindness pro bono. Kindness at the end of every day. And besides, she had always made it clear they were never the point of of her unrest. Instead, they could revel in her love, her compassion or her charity — all depending on the degree of availability of her kindness. So, how difficult could it be to be loved by her?

But you should go! Go ahead and go!

In those moments, she recalled an actress in a film that her mother seemed to be watching every single time she’d walked in on her. The actress was good at crying well, with no resistance in her face. And on that particular line, “Go! Just go!” the actress would close her eyes completely, like someone aware of being watched. And she, catching a glimpse of both actresses in the room, would always wonder: “Why the fuck is she wearing full make-up, in a heartbreak scene?”

The departing would never find another her, she thought to herself; and she was right: They wouldn’t. But with all the others — who weren’t her — things were slightly easier and more vague. Others left room for misinterpretation, so that the lovers could live out their love in mutual illusions, until the first point of cross-reference. Hearts could be broken then, expectations — disappointed. But they would’ve had some wonderful times by then.

And yes, with time, easy became boring; but boring — gave room to calm. And into the calm, it was easier to retire. Because in the end, we were all simply so tired.

So, be kind. Must always be kind. She almost terrorized her lovers with kindness, which was shocking to the recipients, in every beginning. It made her unusual, unlike all the others. The lovers could not have suspected, though, that she was merely collecting a reserve of it for when the going got harder, because it always would; and because the first time the anger came up in each affair, it stayed. One note. No arc. Just co-habituating with the rest of her, not necessarily parasitically.

Some lovers would attempt to rescue her from the anger. (Sometime, infatuation liked to pose as love.) These more ambitious ones would suffer the most, from her resistance, from the complexity of her constant devotion to truth. And only when they, finally tired from it — or of it — raised their first objections, she flaunted all the moments of previous kindness in her self-defense.

How she hated herself for turning calculating, pitiful and shrill! After those endings, she would have to find healing in closure that took more time; because self-forgiveness was harder to summon by someone who did onto others better, than she did onto herself.

But they all would remember her kindness at least, she told herself. In the end, they all would. And, again, perhaps, she was right. But no one could ever survive the lack of self-love.

I could do this one, why not? She’s kinda cute. Hot, actually. She’s hot, and that’s so much better anyway. She’s not one of those gorgeous girls who thinks she’s outta my league. Fuck those bitches! They get too expensive, anyway. But this one is not like that, man. I wonder if she’s the type that doesn’t think she’s beautiful at all. Which makes it even easier.

I should ask her out. ‘Cause I could probably do this one, easily… Hands down!

Okay, maybe not “easily”. She called me “Patrick” last night.

My name is Dave.

Shit, man! Just look at her! Leaning over the edge of the bar, so obviously flirting with Stan. Stan is old, but he can get a girl nice ‘n’ liquored up, I guess. I tolerate Stan. And that’s as far as I go with people.

Stan is, like, seriously deprived of love. His woman is a total bitch to him, you can tell by the way he cranes his neck whenever he talks to a broad. Any broad. Like a fuckin’ abused dog that expects to be hit between his eyes for chewing on her slipper, just ‘cause he just wanted to taste the sweat of her feet. Stan’s woman must castrate him every day, for breathing too loudly or for not looking the part, or some shit. And I bet she thinks she should be with someone better.

Look at him! Just look at him now! God! He’s shaking just ‘cause this girl is nice to him. God…

I hate dogs!

Maybe Stan’s got a giant one. Chicks always say that it’s not important. But that’s just bull, if you ask me. I’ve seen ‘em looking at me when there is no point of going back and I’m staring them in the face, erect but less than a handful. Nerve-racking enough to shrink anyone.

“Ohm,” they say and look up at me with that face, as if I got them the wrong thing for Christmas.

I wonder if it’s those fuckin’ pills. I told John, I’d rather be bald. But then, his woman chimed in: “Jenna”.

“I wouldn’t fuck Prince William, with that hair of his,” she said.

First of: Who wants to date a chick called “Jenna”?! Or “Trisha”? “Trish”. Sounds like a diner waitress with three grown children by another man, at home.

Anyway, “Jenna” has this habit of going out to our fridge, in the middle of a night, in nothing but John’s wife-beater. She’s a bartender, comes over after her shift. Drunk. I hear them fuck. I try to tune ‘em out, so I blast some ESPN, or fucking Transformers 3, I don’t care. Whatev. But it’s like this chick’s got police sirens for her moans. And the really fucked-up thing is: They really turn me on. It’s like having a live porn sound-feed from across the hall. So, I’ve started waiting for John to finish his first round; come out to the living-room, turn on the TV and I watch her, as she runs to the bathroom. (Why do chicks always have to pee after sex? Does urine kill sperm? I fuckin’ hope so!) But then, she comes out, all flushed and glossy from splashing water on her face and thighs; all the fattier places bouncing on her body.

John told me “Jenna” likes big ones. Makes her ears plug up, she says. And she’s got this vein that pops out in the middle of her forehead. Makes John worried she’ll hemorrhage to death on day, if he keeps winding up her sirens like this. So yeah, it matters, he says. Size matters.

“Jenna” lies to my face. Says it’s all about the man’s hair:

“I’d rather fuck a bald guy than Prince William.”

So, these days, whenever she comes over, I watch TV with my cap on. “Jenna” has these sick nails and she always paints them red; and she likes to rough out the top of a man’s head, then pull his face into her breasts and smother his silly grin with them. But not me! Not this guy!…

Ah, shit! Just look at this one though! She’s still talking Stan up and I can see that jittery part of her thighs from the way she hangs on the bar. This one is hot. Kinda like “Jenna”. That’s the problem.

And I can tell she is not like one of those chicks back in college who liked to brag about sex all the time and confuse the attention they aroused — for being liked. Those chicks had seriously low self-esteem. But this one doesn’t talk sex. She moves sex. And we are all deprived.

The roles reversed: When I departed, nearly twenty years ago — so reckless in my youth and dumb — he was the last to disconnect our gazes.

Such had to be the burden of the ones we left behind! And such — the mindless blessing of the ones with great adventures to distract them from the pain of leaving.

What courage it had cost him — to hold the ground and not crumble then, until I turned the corner! And how I would never learn it, until I birthed a child, myself!

And yet, he did: My darling old man. The hero of my lifetime doomed to never disappoint my expectations.

The one to whom my every love would be compared: the ultimate ideal for a man’s goodness. My goodness.

The one who, in tumultuous times, had to commit the ultimate, unselfish act of love — and let me leave in my pursuit of bigger dreams than our homeland could offer. (Would those dreams turn out to be worth our mutual sacrifice? My life is yet to reveal its bottom line. But how I pray!)

And when my hardships happened, oceans away — the one to suffer heartbreaks of a parent’s helplessness and the titan strength of prayer.

The one to not let go, despite the distances and family feuds. (Alas, human stupidity: It never fails to permeate a story.) The one to change in order to keep up. The one — to love and wait.

And pray.

This time, I saw him first!

The crowds of tired passengers were whirling all around him: Loves leaving, in their acts of youthful recklessness or being pulled by bigger circumstances. The lucky ones — were coming home. The floor tiles of the airport endured the writing of rushed footsteps, scoffed wheels of those things that people felt they had to bring along; the punctuation of chic heels of pretty girls; the patter of children’s feet, so blissful and undamaged in their innocence. Tomes could be written if every footstep could be interviewed: The snippets of humanity’s stories that were so often unpredictable, impossible to imagine. But when these stories happened to make sense — when stubborn courage persevered, when love learned to forgive — they found unequal beauty. (Oh, how we could all pray for that! Oh, how we should pray!)

One million more of pedestrians could be packed into the terminal — and I would still recognize my father’s outline. The mind’s a funny thing, of course: Recently, it began to blackmail me with forgetfulness. The first nightmare in which my father had no face — would be the turning point I’d call Forgiveness.

But when I saw him — and I saw him first! — I knew that I would not be able to forget him, ever! Because he was the one I’d spent half a lifetime trying to get back to; the one with whose name I’d christened my every accomplishment; with which I had defeated every failure. He was the love; the never failing reason for it. My starting point and the North Star whose shine I followed to find my way, in and out of grace, and back again.

And when I saw him first and called him: “Oh, my goodness!”

It had to be a prayer, for I had learned to pray — in order to come back.

No cinematic trick can capture the surreal speed with which he turned in my direction. The mind sped up. It knew: This had to be THE memory of my lifetime. This — was where my life would turn its course; and in the morning, I would no longer be the prodigal daughter looking for her homecoming, but an inspired child of one great man.

He turned. The smile with which he studied my departure, nearly twenty years ago, returned to his face, this time, again: It was a tight-lipped gesture of a man trying his hardest not to crumble. The loss had been magnificent; an the return — worth every prayer.

I waved. And then, I waved again. The mind continued turning quickly. It had to remember every single detail of that day, so it could last forever. And fleetingly, it granted me a thought: The manner of my wave was very childlike, as if belonging to an infant mirroring a kind stranger’s hand. But in the moment, I knew no vanity. I cared none — for grace.

When dad’s hand flew up, I noticed: He’d aged. His timid gesture was affected by the trembling fingers and the disbelief of someone who hadn’t realized the perseverance of his prayer. C’mon! There had to be some moments in his life, historical events of giant hopelessness that the entire world endured since last I left, when he, like me, would lose the sight of reason.

Or maybe not. Perhaps, my father prayed! Perhaps, he prayed and bargained with his gods for this very opportunity to persevere life — and see my running back into his arms.

For this one moment, all — had been worth it! My life was worth when my father held me for the first time since nearly twenty years ago.

There’s gotta be evidence of what he looked like, back then. Considering it’s only been half of my lifetime ago since I’ve last seen him, I should be able to remember. So, think! Last time. Last memory.

Half and half. That’s how this story goes. One half — chalked up to my childhood; the other — to having to grow up. The first — to innocence; the other — to no choice.

And only in the later day reflections of myself in the glossy surface of a photograph with someone who looks like the younger me, do I occasionally notice it again.

I was innocent. He — was quickly aging. I was rushing time. He would die if only he could slow it down, at least a little.

How could that happen: that the other half of life demanded a leap larger and longer than any of my or his predecessors have ever committed? Why wouldn’t growing up alone — be enough? Life had to change. So, continents shifted, and so did our outlooks. Our lives.

And I couldn’t wait, too. I’m sure he had something to do with it, though. I couldn’t wait to be of age, to understand him so completely; to answer him right on the dot, precisely, perfectly and so grown up. I wanted to become the company he’d always choose over all others, while he walked and chain-smoked. I would be equal, I imagined. And I would be so poignant, when grown-up, so fascinating, he’d want to jot down my statements. Then! Surely then, he would be so proud!

But first, I think it started as a rebellion against my kindergarten naps:

“When I’m grown up, I’ll never nap!” So serious — so stubborn and determined — I was already very certain that my life would go in a different way; my way. At least, the other half of it; the one that I myself would dictate.

And so I got my wish: Somewhere at the end childhood, things began to change. For all of us. Most grown-ups I knew had no choice — but to catch on. The children had to grow up: Historical transitions aren’t merciful to innocence. So, yes, I got my wish; and halfway through my teens, grew up so quickly, one day, he would have to rediscover me, in awe:

He’d go on thinking that he had failed me; had failed my innocence. He could not protect it from the avalanche of new events. Why wouldn’t growing up alone — be enough? So, for the entire second half, my father was ashamed.

To think: Last memory.

I was already grown up, or striving to be so. Completely clueless about the challenges of an adult life, I was flippant and quite impatient to depart. I would choose to do it all alone: to make a leap larger and longer than any of my or his predecessors had ever had the courage to commit.

But I — had the courage. I was his daughter, after all.

One thing I do remember: Dad always bore his feeling bravely. In all my life until then — in all of my innocent first half — I hadn’t seen my father cry. I would that day: The day of the last memory.

But think: The details, the evidence of what he looked like.

Stood tall, I think. Or was I merely short and still a child (although no longer innocent). His hair had been turning gray quite rapidly. On every waking morning — another start of his courageous bearing — I’d watch him pour another cup of coffee and become an older man.

That day: He chain-smoked. But of course! Standing outside the airport, he chained smoked. That day — he’d look at me, so proudly, I’m sure, but to protect my innocence, to prolong my childhood — he thought he’d failed.

Neither one of us suspected that it would take a whole half of my lifetime — to reunite; and that a half of a life — is long enough to lose one’s last memory.

So, I would rather learn: What does he look like NOW? What will he look like, when we reunite. But any way he looks, I think — shall be a start. A good one — of a new memory, after the second half.

She’s wearing a pair of purple tights and a shirt with stripes of lemon and lime. Her tiny ankle socks match the overall yellowish-green of the shirt, and her feet are trying to wrap around the baby-size chair that used to belong to her younger self (not much younger though, considering she is not even in her teens yet.)

I notice the purple outline around the collar of the shirt:

“Those are some courageous color combos, my tiny one!” I nearly say out loud, but then I stop myself: Getting off on embarrassing a child would make me a major shithead!

And it’s not even mytype of purple either — but it is hers — as we’d figured out over the years. But, actually, her favorite color is green, so she often secretly dedicates her purple choices — to me. Her green is democratic: She likes most shades of it. Although, come to think of it, I’ve never really asked. When ever had I become one of those silly grown-ups — to dare taking these details for granted!

Her most heartbreaking features are her mother’s freckles and her father’s strawberry chin. From the way the sunlight hits her face, I notice the freckles — they now take up her whole cheeks, from the bridge of the nose and up to the temples; and I suppress a desire to hug her: She’s all grown up now — and way too mature for my mushy nonsense. So, I sort of let her dictate the boundaries, on her terms; and keep my grown-up business to myself.

For the last hour, she’s been playing with her father’s iPhone, pulling up songs we both might like. Some tunes are original. Others — are a remake by Glee: all the rave among the kids these days. (And if it weren’t for her, I would have never known it: I AM a grown-up, after all!)

Here comes the widely popular tune of this year: “There’s a fire starting in my heart…”

“Do you like Adele?” she has once asked me before, while hanging out in my bedroom. It made for a long discussion, that night, and we each took turns browsing YouTube for our favorite tunes and dancing. Yes, actually dancing: She, non-vainly, and I — unleashed by her innocence.

“Do you like Adele?” she echos now, looking up at me past her long bangs.

I like the way she wears her hair: It’s always shiny and sleek, never the tumbleweed seen in the photographs of me when I was her age.

We have both grown up as tomboys: I, perpetually clad in sweats as soon as I could get out of my itchy uniform, was always trying to outrun the boys and to lead the armies of first-graders in search of treasures on our town’s rooftops. She — kicks ass at soccer, climbs trees, plays handball; rides bicycles and rollerblades, masterfully and much better than me; and she always looks out for those who are tinier and more helpless. She is kind. She is always kind. For me, kindness, by now, takes discipline. To her — it’s still second nature. Or the first.

We’ve grown up under much different restrictions: I was bound to endless rules by my motha, the pedagogue, and the regulations of bureaucrats that dictated our lives. She, however, is ruled by common sense. Like her American-born parents, she is in tune with the concept of freedom and is already more aware of her rights and liberties at the age of ten. Unlike me, she also knows that choices come with a consequence.

Like this one — of her procrastinating on her homework for the sake keeping me company.

“Love that song!” I mumble. But she is already sneaking a peak over her shoulder and suppressing a gleeful smile. She knows.

Alright! Enough of the nonsense: It’s time for the homework! Or, so the adults tell her.

“Last one! Last one, I promise!” she says, but doesn’t plead. She is SO much cooler than me! Cooler than I’ve ever been!

It’s Glee, again: “I’m walking on sunshine, wooah!”

In a matter of seconds, she bounces, puts the iPhone away, whips out her backpack and plops down in a chair across the table from me. When she thinks, she looks away (sometimes chewing on a pencil): My own childhood habit. Which dreams is she sizing up, right now? What brave escapes is she plotting?

Bright and self-sufficient, she completes the work effortlessly, in a matter of minutes. No problem. She never gives the grown-ups a problem. Neither did I. It’s easier that way: keeps you clear of their nonsense.

But she does say though:

“I wish eight went into 60 evenly.”

I suppress a chuckle — and another hug. I still wish for such things all the time, my tiny one! And that — still! — must be just a matter of my innocence; or what’s left of it.

They said their goodbyes over two cups of soup, in a narrow joint with floors filthy from the slush just outside the door. Instead of a doormat, the management had placed down sheets of cardboard. Not a pretty picture, but it was all somehow very… New York.

And the lines of their dialogue did not resemble any tragic love affair from the best of the world’s cinema. He was civil but not tender, just maintaining a casual conversation. It had been a chronic anxiety, for her, when others relied on the arrival of tomorrow. Since childhood, she was silly with her goodbyes, always making room for them. Just like she did that day: Insisting on sitting down for it, instead of aimlessly walking through the City that had seen way too many unhappy endings prior to theirs.

She had made a mistake of ordering something that sounded the most exotic, with yellow curry; but then she discovered ground chicken in it. She was a vegetarian. To save herself from the embarrassment — in front of him and the tired black woman working the line alone, during the rush of lunch hour — she pretended to eat around the white meat. Until he noticed it.

“You’ve gotta order something else!” he scoffed; and for the duration of their entire pathetic meal, which they’ve spent fully clothed, in their coats and he — in his hat, her mistake would be enough of a diversion from what was actually happening: He was leaving, like so many before him; looking for a graceful exit that no longer existed due to his cowardly procrastination.

“Oh, c’mon!” he kept trying to make her the pun of the joke. “You can’t just eat around the meat! You can’t keep doing… this thing that you do!”

Bingo!

A few months into the affair, he had begun reminding her of someone else. That day — on the repeatedly reiterated subject that suddenly so obviously annoyed him — she finally tracked it down: Someone else had happened to her, in this same City, nearly a decade ago. Someone else who had no intention of sticking around; who often got shamed of her in public — and in front off much chicer dressed young women, with whom he had to think he had a chance. Someone else who had hidden her from his family and friends, who pleaded for only private getaways; who gave her slivers of his time — if any — during the holidays. Someone else who’d made a good use of her youth and sex, but had no courage to end it.

Even back then, in her much younger — less jaded, more innocent — self, she felt something was akimbo. Not right. The intuition kept scratching on the ventricles of her heart. In those days, she wouldn’t call it that: Intuition. Not yet. She needed a few more disastrous repetitions and embarrassing endings — to become more in tune with her self-respect. But the sensation was already there: Something wasn’t right. By the universality of her gender, she knew: Not right.

Now, a decade older, she still couldn’t name it: that feeling of not being enough. Too poor, too orphaned; with not enough stock or family inheritance to her name. Pretty enough and selfless in bed — that was the only thing that made them last. But the awareness of that same feeling was beginning to land in the corners of her eyes with a melancholic recognition of the pattern: He — was leaving. Maybe not that day, and maybe not even after they would reunite at home, on the other coast. But eventually.

This trip had to end abruptly for him. He had to go. Maybe it could last a little longer: She could walk him to his town car. They could grab another drink at their hotel’s bar. But he would finish his cup of soup — and hers, with the chicken — then hug her outside the door, in the snow, among the locals who, just like their City, had grown indifferent to the sight of all endings. He would be clumsy, as that earlier someone else, trying to avoid meeting her eyes. Their height difference made it impossible though, so he would scurry off as soon as he couldn’t help but notice her face: Heartbroken.

“That’s right, fucker!” she thought of him meanly for the first time. “You will NEVER forget me!”

What else could she do to repair herself, in that moment — but to gloat in the peacefulness of her lack of guilt? She had been good, to this someone and the other one. To so many others, she had been good, or generous at least. It could’ve all been simplified in their honest communication of intentions. Instead, they had chosen to drag her along, while offering just enough attention but never too much of it. They procrastinated past the moment when she would fall in love; they scurry off into the landscapes of her Cities.

And the bloody New York — was still there. Like a background action shot, fabricated meticulously by a film crew, it continued to happen: with the never ending honking of cabs and beeping of closing and opening bus doors; with people coming and going — toward their dreams, careers and sex; or running away from love. Nowhere else did it smell or sound like this. And even with the strange sensation of something ending — something snapping and curling up to catch a breath — she knew she was still glorious: Because she loved it — all of it — so much!

“Never, never, never! You will NEVER forget me!” the City was humming along with her. And she didn’t even care about the already vague memory of someone leaving her behind, in it.

In grandma’s house, there were no days of waking late. They could’ve been such days, but it would take some stubborn courage to not succumb to my innate Russian guilt and to stay in bed while the rest of the household filled with busy noises.

The women would always rise first. My grandma was the first to make it to the kitchen, and after the dry footsteps of her bare, callused feet against the wooden floor, intermixed with the thumping of her wooden cane, I’d soon smell the smoke of an oil lamp that she’d start inside a cove of a stone stove, in the corner.

That thing took up half the room: Built of wood and red brick, the stove was the oldest characteristic of a traditional rural Russian home. Its purpose was not only for cooking, upon a single metal plate located right above the fire pit; but for the heating of the entire house. So, the bedroom was often located on the other side of it. The stove was always painted with white chalk; and after a few of my un-welcomed visits of my grandma’s cot, where I would try to warm up my feet but leave markings on the wall, the men of the house took turns repainting that damn thing, upon the grouchy old woman’s instructions.

“Little gypsy children have dirty little feet,” my grandfather would joke through the side of his mouth in which he perpetually held a slowly fuming pipe.

Per old woman’s instructions, he was not allowed to smoke in the house. So, I’d shrug my skinny shoulders knowing that I too had some info on him that could get him also in trouble, really fast.

The fire pit was covered with a rusty door on squeaky hinges. The pots were stored onto the shelves along its wall. But right on top of the structure, one could pile up blankets and pillows stuffed with duck feathers — and sleep. But in my grandma’s house, no living soul was welcome to lounge around up there. (No soul was welcome to lounge around anywhere, really; because the family’s collective labor was its own religion. Except on Sundays: And then, there would be church.)

Two curtains, each about three meters long, were hung to hide the gap between the top of the stove and the ceiling. So narrow was the opening, a grown man would have to climb up there from the side and remain reclining. But I could sit up and lean against the pillar that lead up to the chimney; which I would still do whenever I would not be caught. I’d drag up my toys, but mostly books; and spend hours at a time, frying my soles against the hot stones. Some days, the heat would be expiring until the adults returned and started another fire. But late at night, after the dinner had been cooked, the pots — soaked in a tub of warm, soapy water, then rinsed under the spout sticking out from the wall of the house, outside — the stove was hot. The wooden floor of the kitchen had to be scrubbed every night; and under the strict overlooking eyes of the old woman, the young wives of her sons would find themselves on hands and knees. These chores would make the women be the last to bathe. They’d be the first to rise — and last to rest.

It would require a conspiracy between my motha and I for me to sneak up into the gap behind the curtains. First, she’d push me up, then store the drying cast iron pots in a row and pile them up in such a way, they’d create a wall behind which I could hide, if only I could hold still and flat on my back.

“You must be quiet like a spy. Shhh!” my motha’s hiss at me while winking and tucking me in. Her smirking eyes would tickle my insides with anxiety: at the adventure and the danger of being discovered by the old woman.

I wasn’t sure where motha and I would have to go if my grandma followed through with that punishment. And I was definitely confused at why my father would not follow us into our homeless adventure. But the threat seemed real enough to keep me snickering into the pillow — from little fear but mostly the thrill.

I’d hear my motha’s hands moving the floor rag quickly and impatiently. I’d hear the dry footsteps and the cane of the old woman spying on her, while muttering passive-aggressive instructions on how to do it better. The men would come inside the house together and they would wash their faces and their sweaty necks above a metal sink in the corner, while the women helped by pouring water from aluminum cups. The men would puff and spray liquids from their mouths and noses; and I would hear the women’s chuckles, as the cold splatters landed on their exposed arms and chests.

“I’ll get you after she goes to sleep,” my motha’d promise, and as the house settled down, I’d play a guessing game with others‘ noises and shadows upon the walls and ceiling.

And sometimes, I’d wake up to another day of never rising late. Most likely, I would have drifted into slumber while waiting for my motha to come back. Then, I would have to wait some more, upon a now cold stove, while listening to the noises of the waking household.

I couldn’t yet understand the griefs and grudges that the adults held against each other. But from behind the closed curtains, I could watch their uncensored selves and make up stories.

It would take her years to process the truth. Not the truth of the last moment: Her, weeping at the airport into the shoulder seam of a man’s sweatshirt. She was upping the ante, that day. Making the ultimate bet, the win of which — would be her staying. (At least, she thought that was the win she’d wanted, at that last moment.)

And it was not the truth that he had been feeding her for years. No, not his truth: The truth that he begged her to accept, just so that he could buy himself more time. So that he could continue to have it both ways. Both women.

But how much more time could a man need? He had already taken six years out of her life. Six years out of her youth — and out of her better self.

When they first met, she still had a cherubic face: The same face he would’ve seen had he expressed an interest in seeing photos of her younger self. Her better self: The self before the sans six years had happened. It would’ve foretold the face of their firstborn, if he were to have any courage to follow through with the affair.

But then, perhaps, it was not a question of courage. It was quite possible that the matter narrowed down to the initial intention. Down, down went the spiral, to the root of the matter. On every loop, their faces changed. Their characters changed slightly, altered by each other: And that was the only way she could expect to matter, in the end. In the truth of that last moment, and beyond. After six years, she would have changed a man. She had happened to him. And after her happening, he had to have changed.

She failed to change him for the better. She couldn’t as much as change his mind to make her life — his first choice. For the duration of the affair, she would remain the back-up; the retreat in which he hid when things weren’t well at home. She would remain a fantasy. The Other Woman: The one that fabricated her own calendar, rescheduled her holidays and channeled each day toward the brief line-up of hours when she would see him; then, dismiss the rest. The one that pressured herself into better housekeeping, into whipping up gourmet meals and shaping her body into the best he could have had. His life’s first choice.

In literature, women like her were despised. They were often written mean, or needy; with serious daddy issues. Complete head cases, in films these women went berserk; and they would do the unthinkable things that later justified their suffering. They were insecure, although often very beautiful. Their puffy faces waited by the door on Christmas, and by the phone on birthdays. They were the back-ups, forever waiting for arrivals. They fed themselves on leftovers of loves. The paupers. The self-imposed outcasts. And their faces — sans the years that their lovers took out of their better selves — were the faces she never hoped to see in the reflection of closed store fronts, by which she, too, had waited all these years.

“A bright girl!” she had been called before. A bit naive, perhaps, but not an idiot. But it would take her years: because she wanted to believe that she was good enough to change his mind. Good enough to deserve love.

Up, up went the spiral, up to the clarity of truth. Not the truth that she had wanted to believe so desperately. Not the truth that may have been actual, when the lovers were intertwined: In those moments, he may have loved her; but no more than he loved himself. He too had to be thinking that he deserved love, that he deserved to have it both ways. That he deserved — both women.

The truth was to be found in the initial intention: The root of the matter. He never wanted her for keeps. An adventure, an escape from the dissatisfactions of his chosen life. In his chosen wife. That was the matter: He felt he deserved the comforts of the chosen wife and the fantasy — of the Other Woman. He deserved both.

The problem was: She was a good woman. A good girl. “A bright one”. And to protect himself from the guilt, he had to tarnish her. So, he would leave it up to her — to make the choice to stay. To be the back-up. He left it in her hands to keep on waiting, while he continued — to come back.

And he would have kept going until she lost the memory of her better self and would become that woman: that Other Woman, with puffy-faced reflections and reconstructed calendars. The pauper. The disregarded.

She would have lost her self-respect, and how could anyone respect a girl like that? So, he wouldn’t. He left it in her hands — to destroy her better self. And that would always justify his choice of the chosen wife.

But in the truth of that last moment, she upped the ante: He could either have her better self — or whatever was left of her, after the sans six years — or no self of hers at all. She left him to his chosen life.

And in that last truth, the only person who deserved compassion (because she still would not receive his better love) — was the man’s Chosen Wife.